


Self Destruction

by Doilooklikeicareatall



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: And Mrs Hudson was only mentioned sorry, Angst, Fuck i have no clue what to tag, Gen, Holy fuck so much angst, I think im done tagging now, Like not even joking too much angst, M/M, Suicide, There was some love involved, yeah - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-17
Updated: 2013-09-17
Packaged: 2017-12-26 21:00:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/970234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doilooklikeicareatall/pseuds/Doilooklikeicareatall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has decided to return home, back to 221B Baker Street.</p>
<p>He returns with a promise in mind.</p>
<p>But will he get a chance to keep his promise?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>(Ugh wow I'm so bad at summaries, but the fic isn't bad pls read if you're into angst)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Self Destruction

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a song by 3rd Lane, forgive any mistakes I may have made in the process of writing this fic, it was just a quick little angsty oneshot I made because I'm in a bad mood.
> 
> Hope you all like it!

The entrance to the small flat looked just as Sherlock remembered it as he approached. He heard a loud noise as he approached, probably someone slamming a door, or running into something large, or something equally tedious.

 

The dark-painted wooden door looked the same as well, the brass knocker and simple lettering comforting and familiar.

 

_God, I hope Mrs. Hudson hasn’t changed the locks_ , Sherlock thought to himself with a wry twisting of the lips, not a real smile, not yet.

 

Sherlock wouldn’t be able to smile, not really, not until he could see his blogger, his John, and hold him tight and never have to leave him again.

 

The locks had not been changed, bless dear old Mrs. Hudson’s heart.

 

Sherlock now stepped inside, very careful not to make any noise that could alert John. He already knew Mrs. Hudson wasn’t here, he had been monitoring the place for 3 weeks.

 

He had rarely seen John during that time, but he had heard him. All the crying, the nightmares. Sherlock wanted to do nothing more than to go inside, take out his violin, and play John into a dreamless slumber. But he couldn’t. It hadn’t been safe. Until 2 days ago, when Mycroft finally called Sherlock to tell him that the web had been sufficiently dismantled, and that he was permitted to return to the flat.

 

Sherlock had watched as a very gaunt, frail-looking John saw Mrs. Hudson off with a weary, sad smile. He knew that now was the time, because, if he didn’t come back soon, there wouldn’t be any John left to hold.

 

He made careful, soundless steps up the staircase to the flat, heart constricting painfully with an emotion he could not place, and the sense that something very important was about to happen.

 

He paused, took a deep breath, before raising a slightly trembling fist to the wood, and tapping it against the door.

 

Nothing.

 

Sherlock’s brow furrowed slightly, and he knocked again, with a soft, “John..?”

 

Still nothing.

 

Sherlock was concerned at this point, searching through his pockets for a minute before retrieving his key to the flat, and, with another deep breath, unlocked the door and stepped forward.

 

The sitting room was empty. Figuratively, and almost literally. All that remained was one plush armchair, the coffee table, and a laptop. The laptop was open, and when Sherlock turned it back on ( _no password, John, you should be ashamed_ ), what had been left open was a document. Looked almost like an unfinished blog post, but not.

 

The detective narrowed his eyes, sitting gingerly in the armchair, placing the laptop on his knees, as he read.

 

_Dear Anyone,_

 

_I guess this was to be expected, wasn’t it? Did anyone expect me to make it this far? Did anyone expect me to live on this long, knowing that my mad detective isn’t here?_

 

_If you end up reading this, it’s probably police evidence. So, unless this managed to fail, this flat, the scene of so many altercations, crimes, and mad, sheer brilliance, will now be a crime scene for the final time._

 

_I’ve decided that enough is enough, and another day without him will be too much._

 

_So I’ve chosen to return to him._

 

_In the easiest possible fashion._

 

_And, I apologise in advance for the illegal gun, now probably the murder weapon._

_Not that it’s a murder._

 

_Anyway, everything for… after.. has been sorted already, under my pillow, and if you’ve managed to find this before you find me, you’ll probably find the body in there too._

 

_Wow. That was strange, referring to myself as ‘the body’. Maybe I am just transport, like Sherlock always claimed._

 

_God, I loved him for that. Not that he ever noticed._

 

_But now, I can make him notice. We’ll be together again, and I can prove myself worthy to him as more than just a colleague._

 

_It’s time now._

 

_Goodbye, world._

 

_Yours,_

_John Hamish Watson._

 

Sherlock had stopped breathing by the second paragraph.

By halfway through, he could hear low keening wails that he was almost certain were his.

And by the end, all that was left was the shell of a man, breathing gasping sobs, tears marring the pale skin of his cheeks.

 

As if in a trance, he got up, and made his way slowly to John’s room.

 

But John was not in it. All that was in it was boxes upon boxes of Sherlock’s things, the leather chair in the corner, his equipment lining the walls.

 

Another sob as he turned, went back downstairs, and went into what used to be his room, and now the room that had taken his beloved blogger away.

 

He looked just as he had two days ago, excepting the obvious. Sherlock had to force down the instinct to observe, to deduce everything he could about this new mystery, only allowing himself to note the facts.

 

The gun. The blood. The weary, sad smile. The unseeing eyes.

 

This had happened very recently. Maybe 10 minutes or more ago.

 

_He heard a loud noise, probably someone slamming a door, or running into something large, or something equally tedious._

 

He had been too late.

 

And now, Sherlock sat himself down on the blood and bone-spattered bed, and allowed himself to do what he had come to do.

 

He took his blogger, his beloved conductor of light, his John’s limp body in his arms, and held him tightly, shoulders shaking as his frame racked violently with heart-shattering sobs.

 

He pulled back, and with a choked whisper of John’s name, pressed his lips softly against John’s. They still held the impression of warmth, and this just made Sherlock cry harder.

 

“I was here, John, I was right here, why did you go?! If you had waited, just for a few minutes, I.. we..” He dissolved into a wordless cry, pressing his face into the paradoxically soft jumper John had been wearing.

 

He sat there for what seemed like hours, just sobbing into John’s jumper, letting out all the emotion he knew he’d never be able to now.

 

And then, slowly, he raised his head, and smiled grimly.

“He did this to be with me. He wanted me. Loved me. He did this because he wanted to see me again. Well… I shall not disappoint you, my love, my John. Not this time.”

 

He slowly pried the gun out of cold, stiff fingers.

 

Kissed John’s now cold lips one final time.

 

“Did they ever tell you how Moriarty died? It was a bullet to the head. He put the gun in his mouth, and pulled the trigger while I watched. It’s rather ironic, is it not, John? The way he went down parallels so nicely with the way I will. He died because he had too much to lose, I’ll die because I have nothing to lose. Oh, I do love symmetry, John. Almost as much as I love you. Did I ever tell you that? I mustn’t have. Oh well. I have a chance now.”

 

He looked around the room, eyes appraising and sad. This would be the last room he saw.

 

He pulled out his phone, and, with a sigh, sent one final text to Mycroft.

 

_Goodbye, dear brother._

_SH_

 

Then he put the phone back in his pocket, and prepared.

 

Checked to see if the gun was fully loaded ( _It was, except for the one missing bullet, but Sherlock already knew where that was._ )

 

He wrapped one arm firmly around John’s waist, and raised the other, the one holding the gun, up to his temple.

 

“I love you, John. I hope the afterlife isn’t too boring.”

 

And then he pulled the trigger.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah my apologies for all the angst and such
> 
> Hope you liked it and that it wasn't TOO angsty for you
> 
> If you have any ideas for future stories, send me a message, leave a comment, anything works
> 
> Thank you very much for reading!


End file.
